Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary
by Veganista
Summary: Mary Bennet has never been like the others, but what is she, exactly? She's not quite sure herself.
1. Chapter 1

Mary, Mary, quite contrary. How does your garden grow?

She used to have enough good nature to laugh – good-natured, that's what she is, a real Bennet – but something's sapped it up lately. And now, when someone sings it or asks it, what she wants to do is intellectualise them. (That's what her father calls it sometimes; that, or Mary's vociferations. As if bettering herself is a silly _female _thing. It's not, she wants to shout. Don't they all see? They gave her no room to be anything else. They just didn't give her any room. She's not handsome, and she's not charming, and she cannot walk through mud without caring. This is what they left her. They can't begrudge her it.)

She does care. It's just about the wrong things.

When she reads, she wants to appreciate the book. The lines; she wants them to speak to her. But her eyes always stray to the number at the top of the page, and she remembers the plot as if it's a lesson. She can't find it in herself to care what will happen. The sooner it's finished, the better. Then she'll be more accomplished, and you always need to be more accomplished at the end of something. Accomplished is better.

It's not an unusual measuring rod. The difference is that Mary doesn't have any other. Her sisters are all so free. They don't need her rigid standards – they've developed some of their own, and they're happy. Jane is happy. Elizabeth is happy. Kitty is happy. Even Lydia is happy.

What Mary cannot stand is pretending to feel sorry for _that girl_. She is in love, and she is married. Wickham is a rogue, and she wouldn't want him for herself, but Lydia chose him. Whatever else Mary can decide – she can decide to wear black when no-one's dead, to play the piano when no-one's listening – she can't pick out a suitor.

For one, none of them appeal to her. Also, there are none.

Which should be fine, because she wasn't doing it all for them, anyway. She has God and morals and Mozart, and it's all because this is what brings her satisfaction. (She doesn't like to call it an obligation; the most righteous martyrs didn't _have _to do anything.) She's good at it, too. The others can bet pretty all that they want. They don't have her talent, or her dedication, or, most importantly, her character.

But they are happy, and they are all spoken for. Even little Kitty is engaged now.

She will stay with her mother and her mother's nerves, and care for both in their old age. Her father will stay in his study, venturing out only when she plays too loudly.

She is determined not to mind any of this. If she minded it, she'd have to do something about it. Mary is no champion of the idle. She keeps herself busy most admirably. Pianoforte first – how she enjoys saying the full thing – and then more intellectual pursuits. She nurtures her ear, then her understanding.

Also, she takes Mrs Bennet her breakfast when the servants aren't being sympathetic enough to her plight. Mary understands her, even if she talks in a rather stilted manner – she tells her as much regularly. Mary's vaguely proud, but mostly uneasy. Either her mother is getting lonely, or she's getting more adapted to her family and their secular ways.

As she ages, perhaps her edges are wearing off. But she's fond of them. How else can she bruise people when they rub against her?

Mary, Mary, quite contrary: her name sealed her fate. She thinks, from time to time, that it might have turned out differently. It's never too late. Maybe one day, she'll be asked how her garden grows, and respond, "Quite well, thank you."

Today is not this day. She knows because it started with one of her mother's lists. This day's theme: people who lacked empathy for her ever-beloved nerves and their doings. (Mr Bennet, Mrs Darcy, Mrs Phillips, the neighbours, her cousins, you-Mary-won't-you-close-those-curtains-the-light-is-blinding-me, the rector, the geese, whoever brewed this wretched tea.)

And so it goes on. How much longer can she endure? (Religious strength is one thing; patience is another. She admits this, as vanity is a sin. She's not even quite sure that she wants to fix it.)

Her garden has yet to grow much.


	2. Chapter 2

_(Thank you for the lovely reviews! That encouraged me to update this as soon as I read them, but I'm not sure about this chapter at all.)_

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It started with a full-on earthquake. Our Kitty, engaged! What a lark. And Mary didn't mind the quake. The Bible was generally in favour of marriage (here Mrs Bennet remarked how lovely it was having the family gravitating around Pemberly) and society would not function without it ("Mary, don't you agree?" she insisted at this point) and the clergy were surely better provided for with the comforts of a proper English family ("Mary, Mary, are you listening?" – what she meant was, who would be left to listen when Kitty married Mr Browne? Better start training Mary.)

It would have been a lot easier to get used to the idea without her mother interrupting.

Given time, Mary can justify anything. She's fine with being plain – because she'd had a nice, long stretch to come to that conclusion. She is ignored because those around her are petty. Part of this reasoning is not telling others about it. They question the logic.

It isn't logic. Don't they see? It's coping. But her mother didn't let her cope, not once throughout the ground shaking. And now the tremors are coming, and she fears that they'll be worse. No-one will tell, either. She'll be a deathly still, deathly calm body set in stone. The remains set in lava after a volcanic eruption. The frozen, frostbitten corpse after the avalance.

England lacks such disasters, so it makes its own. Why can't they all be _still_? They don't want to – that's the only reason Mary can think of. They all need movement. Their minds can't facilitate it. It has to be physical.

That's exactly what Mother and Kitty are, lately. Positively somatic. It's all movement and ribbons. Mary doesn't even venture to keep up; staying afloat is trial enough. Oh, Mama, look at this lace! – Dearest, I cannot think of a daughter of mine marrying in cream. White, now, is a proper colour. What notions! – Of course I have notions! I'm to be a bride!

So Mary doesn't intervene, and Kitty's allowed her notions and her cream, which makes her complexion resemble sour milk – as only a shallow, laic soul would note, of course. And the tremors spread a bit deeper.

"Mary, enough of that singing! We must leave." (Mary feels profaned, somehow, when that woman uses her first name. It's ungrateful, and ignores filial respect, and generally isn't the sort of thing she should feel. She feels it anyway.) "Why, your sister will be driven to distraction with this unseemly delay. I wonder that she hasn't despaired of our coming to Pemberley by tomorrow, let alone today."

Elizabeth was not prone to distraction or despair when Mary last saw her, but of course, their mother knows her sister exponentially better since her marriage. She must be easier to sympathise with now that all that income (calling it 'money' is vulgar, Mary suspects) is hers.

The carriage rattles as it approaches – it's trying to let them out, or maybe cast them out. Kitty, full of contemptible blushing, is all fresh excitement and promise. Anything may come of this. Her darling Browne (James, she calls him in private) has a bright future, hasn't he? Bishops are always needed. There he is, willing to fill the gap in the market. There might even be vacancies in Rome – here Mary rolls her eyes and asks just what flock he administers to. Her mother's sermon on the likelihood on any daughter of hers marrying a papist ensues.

Not that she is particularly religious, but it isn't _done_. Apparently.

But now they're here, and Elizabeth has a large house, equipped with rooms and drapes to get lost in. Grecian statues, too, which Mary would make an effort to admire if they weren't – well, what's the genteel word for 'naked'? Organic? Whatever it is, it curtails that plan, of course. Not that they aren't art. They just aren't art for Mary. Best leave them to old men, ones who immune to the effects. (That's the problem with considering such things. You either speak too bluntly, or far too vaguely. 'The effects'?)

In any case, they are greeted and brought in. Handled with pliers the whole time, though Mary doesn't voice this thought. They are dusty travellers who cannot be turned away, but that doesn't make them welcome. Pemberley knows who and what it likes. It's absorbed one Bennet girl, and that is quite enough.

Even Elizabeth's – no, Lizzy's, she must remember to be familial – smile is distant. The cups clink audibly against the saucers. All those quavers, they're converging. A second earthquake begins as their mother shakes the ice apart. "Perfectly satisfied, of course, especially with such an exemplary character to his name." Is she? "I am indeed, and of course, it's a most felicitous arrangement. Just imagine how close you and Kitty will be!" Indeed? "Quite, and then of course there's Jane, and you do know how I love to see my girls united." You do? "Why, yes," – and even the basic questions soon don't matter. Prodding the fire occasionally, that's it. Tossing logs in is outmoded. As for tossing logic in? Not a chance.

"My dearest Lizzy, where _is _Darcy?" Mrs Bennet has taken an alarming liking to him. Mary attributes it to his giving her the upper son-in-law hand over Lady Lucas. He holds no such appeal for her. He and Elizabeth are so relentlessly _ordinary_, and it bothers her. Shouldn't the rich, the beautiful, live on a high plain of thought? But they exchange banter, not ideas. She doesn't understand. Philosophy could be their luxury. They don't take it.

He is hunting, it seems. Mary dislikes hunting, too – so tribal – but the Pemberley people are not to be contradicted in their home turf.

Also, Mary suspects that her family's presence brings the hunting season on. Whenever they call on Elizabeth, the best game seems to be had, and he absolutely mustn't miss it. So Lizzy occupies the opposite sofa on her own, and they all take her word for it that she's happy.

And why shouldn't she be? Her face mapped it all out for her. So does Kitty's, and the plan will work out just as well.

Mary's features, however, are too irregular to follow. The lines look like forests, not roads. Her nose bumps on one side but not the other: a dead end?


End file.
